


Falling in Love in the Robot Apocalypse

by CurlicueCal



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe, First Meetings, Fluff, I have so many feelings about robots, M/M, Robots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-18
Updated: 2014-04-18
Packaged: 2018-01-19 20:15:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1482508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CurlicueCal/pseuds/CurlicueCal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’s ridiculously calm for a fellow being chased by a patrol of killer robots.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Falling in Love in the Robot Apocalypse

You’re running like a consarned bat out of hell when you spot him, standing right out in the open and watching your pell-mell advance with a blank face and eyes hidden behind dark lenses. Well, more like you almost run over him. You don’t really think, just grab his wrist and tug him along after you like a kite on a string. “Look out look out look out look out, mechas at six o’clock, fire in the bloody hole!”

He gets his feet back under him after only a few tangled steps and runs easily alongside you. His face tilts your way, heedless of the reckless pace you’re setting. He’s ridiculously calm for a fellow being chased by a patrol of killer robots. “You’re expecting an explosion?”

"Figure of— ah— speech—" You yank him to the side, ducking left into a narrow alley and immediately jinking right again to vault a low gate and run crouched along a fence.

He follows after. “I don’t think that’s how idioms work.” His voice is neutral, almost dry. He doesn’t even sound out of breath.

It’s so out of place it startles a laugh out of you, a surprised bubble of air that you only barely manage to keep quiet, despite the dire situation. Hell, who are you kidding?— _because_ of the dire situation. You’re pretty sure you just survived that fracas entirely by throwing things and running like a singed squirrel. “Shucks if I know.” Crouching back into the cover of a half-fallen building you turn a manic grin on him, all teeth and dizzy, adrenaline-born elation.

From this close, you can see the shadows of his eyes behind his sunglasses. He blinks twice.

"I don’t suppose you saw how many bots there were left?" you add. You lean in around him to peek past the corner of your temporary refuge, wary of pursuit. Your companion-in-flight is like a well-built rock; he doesn’t move even a hair to reclaim his personal space. He just sits there and lets you do your thing. You wind up practically pinning him to the wall as you climb into a better vantage point.

“Four hunter-killer droids, two roller-scouts, one aerial unit.” The list is quick and precise and almost in your ear. His hidden eyes still track you intently.

"Damn." That’s two more than you had spotted. Seven more than you could hope for. You withdraw to armslength, furrowing your forehead. "I’m afraid this is going to get a mite dicey," you confess. "My laser pistols went dead half a day ago and I’m all out of chargers."

It’s almost worse the way he just cocks his head and watches you without judgement.

You flash your teeth apologetically and pat his shoulder in a bracing fashion as you complete your disentanglement. "Well, never fear! I'm sure I can figure something out.” Probably. Maybe. You don't mean to leave your new friend in the lurch, anyway. Sitting back, you rack your brainpan for any kind of solution that won’t wind up with you both minced by robots. Plans are usually your cousins’ department. You’re more a fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants kind of guy. A strategy which would serve you better if you actually _had_ pants.

By which you mean functional weapons to shoot robots with.

Obviously you have pants.

Frigging hell, wouldn’t that just be the icing on this fiasco pastry, though?

Amid your troubled silence, you hear two soft clicks. Your companion withdraws a hand from his black tanktop, holds it out to you. His face is unreadable. In his palm are a pair of red and grey flattened rectangles, like stacked decks of cards.

Battery units!

Your hand reaches out automatically, greedy. You catch yourself halfway there. “Don’t you need those? I wouldn’t want to rob a chap of his weapons. If you’ve got your own guns—”

"I don’t use guns," he cuts you short. Terse. He nudges the power-packs toward you again.

Well! You aren’t the sort of fellow that needs asking twice. Scooping them up, you slot the chargers into the power units of your pistols. They’re not the standard make, but you’ve long since adapted your guns to work with almost anything. The hum of your babies coming back to life in your hands is the prettiest music you’ve heard all day.

You holster one gun, point the other up in the air by your shoulder. You find you’re grinning like a fiend again and turn it on your new best mate. “You, sir, are a gentleman and a prince,” you say, with feeling. “And may I add it has been a positive _pleasure_ running into you.” You repress another bubble of laughter, smile a little more madly instead. “I’m Jake, by the by.”

He stares at you. One beat. Two. “Dirk,” he says, suddenly, stiff and awkward. His face remains blank and removed, but the tips of his ears turn pink.

It could just be the charged laser pistol in your hand talking but you think that’s kind of lovely. You clap him on the back. “Glad to make your acquaintance.”

And then you have to fight robots and run for your lives some more, sniping from hidden vantage points at metal death-machines and generally trying to kill the other side while they try to kill you first, and in the midst of the firefight Dirk turns out to be deadly quick with a blade. It’s a rollicking good fight and the really excellent bit is that you somehow both live through it.

Hot _damn_ you’re on fire today. The robot armies of the apocalypse have no idea what hit them.

It takes you almost until nightfall to realize you can hear servos whirring when Dirk moves and feel the soft hum of circuitry under his skin when you take his hand to drag him along after you home—and by then it’s already too late.

You’re much too smitten to care.


End file.
